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kidskin
jacket on the chair, during roll call
she rockets a response with a slender tongue
her nakedness is narcotic — tells me there are no Houri
and would you like to see my peashooter
kickshaw
gestures I reach for a cigarette
forgetting I cannot smoke inside
the stitched lab
they say it stimulates love . . .
I know
turnabouts are slow, here in the far extensions of Wallow
I cannot unbosom the slippery portion, for she's possessive;
means to keep all the air ballooned (still) she's a bell whether
or not
it rings, she's swell within embraces that still sing . .
.
balls and
strikes – calls and Rilke's chain of sonnets
make me feel without strategy, but then I remember
the stride and that this ride is for her
past the vestibule, into the bedchamber
where I
write this verse and
refrain from cursing at the long list of effing names.
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